


A Thousand Miles from Comfort

by howsyasister



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: D/s undertones, M/M, tenderness kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsyasister/pseuds/howsyasister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to "I Prefer Choking to Chair Shots"</p>
<p>Is this weird? This is weird. With their strange, semi-not-at-all-platonic relationship going on, Roman tries to navigate just what in the hell Feelings are, while Dean has to come to terms with the fact that being this close to Roman means sometimes, you just have to let the big guy take care of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles from Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lucy, aka heyspibsy. This is the longest wrestling thing I've written yet, and it frankly developed a mind of its own, as well as a whole lot more plot than I was banking on.

"What, you thought I'd be some kinda illiterate, IE using goblin?"

Roman hesitates to answer because, frankly, yes. Dean laughs at the way Roman's mouth twitches to stay neutral from his perch on the end of the bed. He's always been full of surprises and now, Roman's feeling a bit guilty that computer literacy is not among the least of them. It's not that he thinks Dean is too dumb for computers, but the multi-window editing monstrosity he's got up right now implies a level of patience that he'd simply figured his partner incapable of. 

There he is, though, working on some project that is frankly beyond Roman with the kind of smile that still leaves his eyes soft. It's a smile that's all but disappeared from the public eye since he lost his title, becoming even more rare since Seth proved himself turncoat. It's good to see, Roman decides, not able to contain a warm half-smile spurred by the hot air balloon feeling in his chest. 

"Let's go out and grab food, I'm bored."

"Man, I just got back in-"

"From working out, I know. So go shower and we'll eat. Gotta refuel the tank."

Roman shoots Dean a look like he might be about to put his foot down, but he's getting hungry, anyway. He's not necessarily keen on an intimate setting, what with their still unlabeled, unconventional relationship, but the pull of food is undeniable and he'd hate to kill that smile, besides. "Only if you're driving." He stares Dean down a moment longer so he doesn't feel like he's lost, then slinks to the bathroom. 

A hot shower doesn't get his thoughts in order the way he'd thought it might. In wondering about what in the hell a few (undeniably fantastic, beautifully set up, magically cathartic and healing, god who knew Dean Ambrose would be such a great sub) BDSM sessions made him to his best friend, and pondering what else he doesn't know about Dean if he missed this computer skills thing, and circling back to remember their few sessions, he wastes too much time waffling about jacking off to be able to pretend he didn't. 

If Dean'll suspect it, though, Roman figures he might as well earn the suspicion. He's quick about it, not bothering to tease himself or build up to anything. He just pulls at himself fast enough that he can hear a raspy drawl poke fun in his ear. 

"You're gonna get blisters, Roman. Gonna yank your dick off. That'd be a damn shame. Lemme help." If he closes his eyes, Dean is on his knees in front of him, waiting with that eager open mouth. He bites the inside of his lip hard as he comes, not willing to make a sound, then quickly rinses off his hand and washes his hair quickly (though even in a hurry, he's not about to forget conditioner). This is weird. Is this weird? What the hell has he gotten himself into with Dean Ambrose? 

If Dean noticed Roman took longer than usual, he doesn't mention it, focus dialed back into his computer. He doesn't drop any sly comments when Roman drops his towel and Roman doesn't even feel those sharp, ice-colored eyes on his back. It's a relief, since he wouldn't know how to respond, but he can't help but wonder where his head's at. It's like nothing's changed, which is great, but not what he expected from the man who, in heated moments, has wrapped his legs around Roman's waist while grinding their still-clothed hips together and begged for more. This feels so easy and Roman can't help but wonder how it's going to break. It's admittedly a little heavy for idle thoughts while he's picking out pants, but for the good and the bad, both, he can't get Dean out of his head. 

The thing about letting Ambrose drive is that it means you have no damn idea where you're going. Roman is pretty sure they took three left turns just to keep him good and disoriented. 'It fucking figures, this is how I'd lose a kidney,' he thinks with as much humor as hubris. It turns out the delay isn't so much due to keeping Roman in the dark as it's due to Dean's sense of direction being significantly more fallible than he boasts. 

They step out of the car in an Applebee's parking lot the next town over and rely on hats and slouching in the corner not to get noticed. It's easy enough, anyway, with a boisterous karaoke night in full swing, though for just a moment, Roman is horrified that Dean might try bullying him into singing. Turns out, he's got just about the opposite in mind. He tucks himself into the corner against the wall, stretching one of those long legs across the length of the booth seat and looks about as relaxed as he gets in public settings. 

"We don't get to people watch much, ya know?" Dean muses, voice just managing to carry over a more than half-shouted version of "The Final Countdown." "Since we're always the watched people. Nice to be on the other end."

Roman has to stop and think about that one. Looking up at the other restaurant patrons, he sees so much of his college football teammates in the huddle of four drunk kids around the microphone. The portly guy with sunglasses on top of his head at 8 at night running the computers and sound system probably has the nicest pipes in the joint. He hasn't even heard the guy speak, yet, but that's just how these deals usually go. When the waitress comes by, she's sweet and young and cute and tired. Probably making her textbook money here. She's blissfully unaware of who they are.

Dean orders a Guinness, water, and pretzels, apparently deciding to have a cheat day. Roman gets Bud Light and water, not yet fully committed to eating like shit. When the poor, harried waitress (Christy, as Dean keeps repeating in his flirtations) brings their drinks by, Roman's sure to also thank her by name, though with none of Dean's skeeviness. As she walks away, Dean grins and leans over the table conspiratorially.

"See? Now you're noticing people, aren't you? You are, I can tell. You got too used to people being backdrops for the guy you're fighting. And that's good, that's how you stay focused. But they exist, ya know? And they're weird."

"The hell's wrong with you? I notice people, talk to fans-"

"Fans are completely different. What was the host's name?"

"Huh?"

"Jimmy. He had a nametag. He hates Christy, probably thinks we're assholes, so he gave us to her."

"How the hell-?"

Dean just shakes his head and taps his temple as he sits back in his seat.

"Not all of us got football tackles in our arsenal. Gotta get a little creative with how we're gonna take the next guy out."

Roman almost gets mad at that, but he'd be flat out lying if he tried to deny that his MO is beat the hell out of the other guy head on until he stays down. There's never a question of, 'but how do I take THIS one down.' When he huffs an appreciative laugh, he watches the tension eke out of Dean's shoulders. So he did realize he just about jumped on a landmine. 

"So what, you just never turn that off, then?"

"When it's not for a fight, it's just fun." He shrugs, then grins broadly as Christy drops off the appetizer. "Thanks, Christy, you're a doll."

He orders steaks for the both of them, "the ones with the bourbon and mushrooms, rare as you got 'em," and she's back on her way again. 

"Now before you get mad and think I'm talking for you or pulling more psychology bullshit, I'm gonna ask that you not act like there's anything else here you'd eat, anyway."

Roman laughs and kicks Dean's shin under the table. "Well scouted, asshole. And they called Seth the Mastermind."

"He was still better than me." Dean's face sobers considerably and Roman wishes he'd kicked himself instead. 

Silence passes as Dean divvies the pretzels meticulously, staring at the beer cheese like it's got answers for him. If he could take two steps out of his own head, he'd probably be laughing at himself. He mixes the cheese and honey mustard together like a godless heathen, and Roman makes no bones about his disgust, letting it smear across his face for Dean to catch when he finally looks up again. He draws out a growly, "haaaah," before stuffing a wad of pretzel in his mouth. 

"You got me fucked up, man. That's a sin."

“I’m not gonna be the first person or the last to tell you you gotta broaden your horizons.”

“That’s got shit to do with horizons. That doesn’t taste good, you’re just mixing them because they’re both there.”

“Gotta make sure it doesn’t taste good before I can write it off.”

“And then you’re just gonna do it to piss me off.”

“You know me too well, brown sugar.”

“...Are we still talking about pretzels?”

Roman can’t help but blurt out the question, and immediately regrets it because dammit, he’d just gotten that smile back on Dean’s face again. Dean, for his part, straightens and regards Roman’s face almost solemnly for just a moment.

“Well, honestly, I thought we were talking about cheese and mustard, but…” He flashes an utterly puckish smile before letting it fade when Roman doesn’t immediately flirt back. “Hey, man, if you want it to just be about pretzels, it’s just about pretzels. No worries.” Another swab of pretzel through cheese ends that conversation, at least for Dean. The ball is back in Roman’s court and, quite frankly, he’s inclined to just sit on the damned thing.

The pretzels get finished in a silence that's awkward, but not oppressive. Roman feels the onus on him to break it, but he doesn't know whether it should be with casual conversation or serious talk. God, this has him wrung up like a teenager. Dean doesn't even look like he cares what they talk about. He obviously wants to talk, with all the not-sneaky glances he keeps flicking at Roman, but it's Roman's turn, he's wordlessly insisting. Christy has dropped the steaks off and distractedly checked that they are, in fact, as rare as they come, and shuttled off to a table of drunk assholes who won't tip her the way she deserves for how they run her around, before Roman musters himself to actually have an upfront conversation with Dean about what this is that they're doing and what they both want out of it. 

"So, does all this shit make me gay now, or what?"

... Or not. 

"Depends, I guess. How gay are you feeling?"

"That ain't any fucking help," Roman growls, pointing his steak knife toward Dean's chest for emphasis. 

"You're the one asking me, of all people, for help."

"God, you're a bigger brat than Seth was-"

"Is."

"Right. So... let's try something else. It's this a date?"

"Do you want it to be a date?"

"You. Aren't. Helping!"

"How the hell are you expecting me to help? Calm your damn gay panic down and eat your steak," Dean points with his fork, "and quit asking me questions about your personal shit. It's your shit to figure out, I don't have your answers."

Roman is just about gets mouthy before Dean grumbles out that last line. Right. Dean isn't going to know what Roman wants any better than Roman does. 

"Do you want this to be a date?"

"I want you to eat your damn steak, is what I want."

When Roman can't help but laugh, Dean can't help but smirk, and the tension dissipates enough that he does actually eat his steak. Things are quiet as Dean seems to accept that Roman's thinking too hard for good conversation. He still keeps checking Roman's face, looking for something only he knows about, but not often enough to make things feel awkward. More awkward. There's something wrong, and Roman can feel it, but Dean isn't charging at him head first with it for once, so it apparently isn't urgent. He's rolling his broccoli in his mashed potatoes, set on making it look like cauliflower, when he speaks up. 

"Being bi is an option, you know. In case you're. Liking this?" A quick flap of his hand between the two of them. "But still, ladies-"

"I know it's a thing," Roman clips back in the defensive tone of someone who's forgotten it's a thing. He opens his mouth to continue and gets cut off. 

"Don't. If you were about to bring Seth up, just don't. I don't give a shit if this is just dinner between friends, that'd be time number three you brought him up, and I have a lot better time not thinking about the little shitsmear, alright?"

Oh. That's the problem. 

There's a wobble to Dean's voice that gives it such a gravity. Roman wants to pull the other man's head to his shoulder and block out the rest of the world until his voice is that strong and arrogant rumble that comes from deep in his chest again. He's mortified, too, that Dean was absolutely right. It's not a tough intuitive leap to make, but he still feels read like a book in a way that makes him stop and think about Dean in a new light for about the hundredth time. 

"Anyway, whatever. Just thought I'd actually try to help a little."

"No, thanks. Had my head up my ass."

"I'm used to it, it's fine."

Roman kicks Dean under the table and Dean sneers, but it's not that relaxed and easy smile. In another lull in conversation, they finish their food and, when Christy makes it to the table for dishes, Dean passes her a Benjamin as he starts to get out of the booth, nodding for Roman to follow. 

"No change, babe." Her eyes go so wide, Roman wonders if they might fall out. There's a hesitance in her face, like she expects there to be some kind of catch, with how Dean's been a creep, but he just heads out, leaving Roman to follow with a quick, embarrassed thanks.

"Over the top much?"

"Ehhhh, I always wanted to do that."

Roman rolls his eyes as he ducks into the car. "You're even an asshole about doing something nice. That's commitment."

Dean just laughs as he starts the car. Roman relaxes into the seat, smirking, trying to decide if that was horrible or fantastic. This is weird. It's so weird. It's so easy, except for the parts where he fucks up and makes Dean go all scowly, or even tips him toward a Bad Place. And Dean is aggravating, always antagonistic and teasing and mouthing off when he has no damn right to... But then it's funny and he smiles and they shoot the shit for hours and half-assedly mat wrestle on the bed, and when Dean kisses Roman like he just can't help it anymore, it feels like coming home and laying on the comfiest couch with the day's last perfect sunbeams streaking over. 

"... You paid for my dinner."

Dean furrows his eyebrows and shoots Roman a sideways look. They're back on the highway, and Roman frankly didn't even notice the car moving, deep in his thoughts as he was. "... That a problem, big guy?"

"Well, I'm just saying, that kind of makes it a date, right?"

"Christ, still this? I-"

"Yeah, there's no way that wasn't a date. Shit, we even ate steak. That's fucking fancy."

"It was fucking Applebee's, you don't have to-"

"I said. It was a date. And about as nice of one as we could've got."

"Ro, I'm telling you, this doesn't have to-"

"Next time, I pay."

"... Next time?" Dean side-eyes Roman again like he doesn't dare hope. "As in next date that we have? Like, you wanna do this again? More?"

" You having a hard time listening?" The charge in the air changes as Dean's lips quirk up. 

"Absolutely not. Just making sure I understand you."

"Good boy."

"Just for you." Roman sets his hand on Dean's thigh and is more than a little pleased to feel the muscle twitch under his palm and hear the engine revv as Dean accelerates. 

It's Roman pressing Dean against the inside of the door of the hotel room when they get back, and Roman initiating a forceful kiss and Roman taking the undisputed lead. Dean can hardly keep up at first, shocked by the initiative not being his. He surges against Roman, though, tangling hands needfully in his hair and doing his best to press them together from chest to knee. He hums and gasps and reacts so deliciously and so Deanly to every brush of teeth and press of tongue. He's fully lost for only a few moments, though, before he startles back hard enough to knock his head on the solid door with a painful sounding thup. He shakes his head, looking like he just remembered he left the stove on, for all his alarmed urgency. 

"Yellow light. Yellow light, slow down. It was that easy? You're cool with this now? The guy thing? Like, you're actively participating. This is just cool now?"

"Now who thinks too much?"

"This is different. You were just having gay panic, what, less than an hour ago? Don't get me wrong, I like it..." Roman can hear the worry and it makes him lean in for a kiss that Dean adamantly dodges. "No. Hey. Focus." He points to his own eyes, then Roman's. "I gotta know you aren't gonna go all weird on me."

"Shit, I mean. I might? I just... like you more than I worry about it." He thought it sounded sweet, but watches Dean's face cycle through several emotions before ending at neutral. 

"You're an idiot. You're so fucking stupid. If you start regretting this in a few hours, I'm kicking you out of the bed and we aren't rooming together anymore, if you can't not think with your dick."

"It's not-"

"Roman." Dean's tone is warning. Just the sound of Roman's own name is so loaded. Dean's acting teasing and harsh and unsympathetic, but Roman doesn't even need to try and read past it. He's already practically wearing decoder goggles.

"Then kick me out of bed. But I want this right now."

Dean accepts that. It's not promises, it's not feelings, it's not future talk, it's just facts. "Okay," he agrees, tilting his head back to Roman's. "Okay," smudged against Roman's lips. "Okay, green light." 

Dean lets a hand just start idly twisting in Roman's hair as he melts back into kisses. The other hand scrapes fingernails carefully through Roman's beard and it's tingly and kind of perfect. As he feels his best friend relax again, Roman slips a hand up the side of Dean’s neck, up to cup around the back of his head, protecting it from another thwack. Dean whines in the back of his throat and his lips twitch into a frown as he tries complaining around kisses.

“Stoppit. Don’t do that. It’s dumb.” All that earns him is a rumbly chuckle from Roman, and a bit of gentle stroking with his thumb, which is plainly the opposite of what Dean wants. “Staaahhp,” he growls, muffled by the Roman’s utter refusal to stop kissing. When Dean keeps running his mouth, Roman’s lips drift to the corner of it, then down to the soft spot just behind his jaw. “Swear to god, I-”

“Go ahead and keep mouthing off, boy. See where it gets you.” Roman’s voice is a low and deadly purr in Dean’s ear that sends a shiver up his spine and has him slouching even another inch more. “...That's what I thought.”

Roman's free hand is trying to build up a bit of courage. He looses his iron grip on Dean's waist to push his shirt up, fingertips drawing firm lines up his sub's stomach, and Dean shamelessly rolls his body into the touch, arching to prolong the already slow contact. It’s encouraging, to say the least, even if this all still feels just a bit daunting. All the times Dean has taken care of him, made him feel fantastic, been so good for him, Roman wants to say he's here for this too and make him feel so wanted, and it turns out, that's a bit of pressure for someone still wrangling with what Feelings mean. 

He may not know how to deal with the way Dean's laugh reminds him of cinnamon ice cream, but he does know that there's no way he's letting Dean do anything this time but sit back and be appreciated. This is pretty weird, he decides as he runs chewed short nails down his best friend's ribs, loving the way they stutter and expand. This is weird, but that's just how things have to be with Dean Ambrose, so Roman decides he can roll with it. 

Roman leans in to nip at the skin below Dean’s ear, then kiss where he’s bitten, and he can feel the shiver running down Dean as it travels, from the twitch under his lips to the shudder he feels under his hands on to the aftershocks down the thighs pressed against his own. A chuckle bubbles out of his mouth before he can clamp down on it, and when Dean sucks in a breath so sharply, Roman can feel his chest swell, and it’s just So Much. He trails fingertips down to Dean’s hips, taking his sweet time to introduce himself properly to all the slopes and angles he’s been too hurried to get to know. When his best friend makes a noise of protest at the tenderness and reaches between Roman’s arms to shamelessly palm at his crotch, Roman simply and neatly knocks the hand aside, then curls his fingers into the waist of Dean’s pants.

“Easy, tiger. You’re not driving tonight.”

“I know, but lemme just-” 

“Not negotiable. Keep your hands to yourself like a good boy and get on the bed. I’m takin’ care of you tonight.”

Roman leans back to give Dean room to do what he’s said, and is a bit surprised by the look he’s getting. Dean is regarding Roman with that thin-lipped, wide-eyed face of disbelief, then he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling like he needs to center himself. Roman kisses at Dean’s collarbone while he’s shooting anguished looks skyward, and feels his chest heave in a tremulous, suffering sigh. 

“Fine. Fine. I’m gonna be good. And you’re gonna be the death of me.” Dean rocks away from the wall and steps toward the bed, when Roman catches him by a belt loop, giving it a tug that has Dean swivelling to face him fully again. Roman arches a brow and Dean’s face is full deference again.

“I’m gonna pick you apart and you’re gonna thank me.” There’s no menace in Roman’s voice, just matter-of-fact plainness, and Dean does that thin-lipped, wide-eyed thing again before screwing his eyes shut tight and waiting for Roman to let go. Of course, this means he’s held captive an extra beat before Roman nudges him away. Obediently and expediently, Dean just about scrambles to the bed. He yanks his shirt off over his head as he flops onto the mattress, and the eagerness has Roman’s throat drying a bit. The springs complain under Dean as he scoots to the head, and Roman has to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep a solid face.

Lingering only a moment, Roman follows his best friend onto the bed, climbing over him with so much more confidence than he’s actually feeling. Turns out, the closeness helps. Staring at Dean on a bed, waiting, is terrifying. Staring at Dean’s face up close is… well, it’s frankly ideal. A strong hand at Dean’s shoulder pins him, while Roman picks up where he’d left off, tracing a line up Dean’s neck with his tongue and catching an earlobe between his teeth. 

“Hohhh fuck,” Dean blurts, one hand flying up to grip at Roman’s wrist.

“Problem?” Roman mumbles into Dean’s ear. The reaction is just ambiguous enough to have his free hand hovering near Dean’s hip, not yet making any sly grabs.

“No. No, sir. No problems. Doing excellent.” Dean catches his mouth running and curls his lips over his teeth to try and stem the flow. Roman, in turn, just chuckles and scrapes teeth over stubble.

“That’s what I figured, tiger.” As Dean’s fingers lace over Roman’s, he powerhouse grips at Dean’s waist again, taking a brief pause to marvel at its slimness before curling fingers into the waistband of Dean’s pants again. The asshole can’t be bothered with pants that actually fit half the time, and with a bit of force of will, Roman could probably yank them off without even undoing them. Brute force is not the name of the game tonight, though, so he settles for just tugging them lower on Dean’s hips and fitting his knuckles against the dip of Dean’s pelvis. He files away for later the thought that he really wants to find more of these little ways he fits against Dean. A tiny whine leaks out of Dean when Roman presses a kiss to his bad shoulder and he slaps a hand over his face. 

"Quit being so fucking nice. Get rough with me." Roman stops the tender touches abruptly and can see a mix of victory and fear flash across Dean's face. Pressing up onto both of his hands and framing Dean's hips with his knees, Roman cages Dean in and stares him down. 

"One, you know damn well not to talk to me like that." The way Dean's breathing has picked up isn't subtle, even if the keen spark behind his eyes might have been. "Two, I'm gonna give you what you need. If that's rough, you'll get rough. Right now, you need exactly what I'm doing because you have no damn clue what to do with it." A pained squint settles into Dean's features because Roman is exactly right. Tenderness is hardly in his vocabulary. Roman grabs his best friend's chin, easy on the scar tissue, and holds him still for the softest, sweetest press of lips. He feels Dean's hands lift before dropping back to the mattress futilely, desire to be good apparently outweighing the need to run and hide from this. 

Roman breaks the kiss and feels a pang at just how lost his best friend looks under him. Dean knows how to lick his own wounds. He has no clue how to let them be bandaged. Shifting slowly, Roman kisses down Dean's neck, then to his collarbone. He kisses a straight line down Dean's sternum,getting that hot air balloon sensation again over feeling the rise and fall of his chest. When a shaking hand tangles in his hair, he lets it slide. It's not a bid for control, just an attempt to ground himself, which Roman can more than allow. 

As he settles into the sturdy brace of control, Roman's worries about Feelings and his anxieties over being what Dean needs melt away, replaced by sleek, onyx confidence. He knows what Dean likes, loves, needs. Letting himself lay on his side, he snakes hands around his best friend, pulling him to his chest before rolling onto his back. The confused look on Dean's face when he finds himself on top is priceless. He sits up, hands braced on Roman's shoulders, and his eyes study- sharp little icicles trying to carve straight into Roman's thoughts, those eyes are- only to be foiled by a frosty warm half smile.

"I ever tell you you're gorgeous?" Roman smooths his hands up and down Dean's sides, and it's stunning to see Dean's cheeks color, showing the first ounce of bashfulness Roman's ever seen in him. 

"You were mostly too worried about being gay, while I'm busy looking like a used Burger King bag, so it's never come up, no."

"Don't get mouthy when I'm being nice, boy."

"Sorry, sir." The response is immediate, and Roman runs a fond hand up Dean's spine in forgiveness. The hand presses gently, but firmly down as it slides from tailbone up between shoulder blades, to the back of Dean's neck, pulling until their faces are just a breath away again. Dean's eyes close about halfway down, and stay that way until he realizes he isn't being kissed just yet. He peeks with one eye and it's all Roman can do not to just crush his partner to his chest for it.

"You're my favorite person when you're not being a brat." He pulls Dean in for the expected kiss only after he's said that, and the heat off of Dean's cheeks is just about smothering. He sighs softly through his nose as he feels his best friend not trying to push the intensity for once. Dean’s lips move slowly, and he’s almost reserved in the way his tongue sneaks to taste Roman’s. He kisses like caramel, so craveable and so hard to get the taste from your mouth, not that you ever really want it gone. He melts and sticks and his teeth are the pleasant corners of rock salt. “Know what?” Roman pries, unable to keep from laughing when Dean continues to pour into his mouth between words, “You’re still my favorite person when you’re being a brat, too.”

“Don’t,” Dean mumbles like it hurts. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Tell you you’re amazing?” Roman presses a finger under Dean’s jaw to tip his head back as he cranes down to leave what is certainly going to be a bruise on the slowly flushing skin of Dean’s chest.

“Th-that, yeah. I don’t lie to you. Don’t do that.” Roman’s hands come to the crests of Dean’s hip bones and he rocks Dean’s hips as he flicks his tongue over one of his nipples- the one that’s always been attached. Dean sucks in a deep breath as he starts to rock his hips unassisted, breath quickening. 

“You can sleep on thumbtacks, but you can’t hear that you’ve got the most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen.” Roman’s hands drift toward the button of Dean’s pants, and it’s just about the most endearing thing that Dean can’t quite get his hips to stop moving, entirely, as he does this. “You took a saw to the head and made it through just fine,” he reminds as he pulls Dean’s cock out of his pants. “I think you can survive hearing that I can never get enough of kissing you.” Dean whines, sounding reluctant as hell, but until Roman hears yellow or red, he’s going to keep throwing as much of this at Dean as he can, hoping some of it sticks.

Dean tries retorting, but there’s a hand on his cock now, and things get tough for him. The rocking of his hips never really stopped, and Roman isn’t about to keep him from enjoying himself, especially not when it looks like Dean with his head tipped back and hands braced on Roman’s chest with curled fingers as he rolls his hips into Roman’s hand as slowly as he can tolerate. 

“Good boy. Look at you. This isn’t so awful, is it?” Roman’s free hand comes up to pet Dean’s hair as he strokes, and Dean turns his head, doing his best to hide his face in Roman’s palm. He’s almost alarmingly warm and his breath bounces desperately off of Roman’s wrist. He brushes Dean’s hair from his forehead with a thumb, and Dean nudges at his hand with his crooked nose to press a kiss to his wrist, and it’s all Roman has in him not to yank his partner into a headlock and hold him to his chest forever. 

Roman speeds his hand up and is only a little surprised to feel Dean’s teeth scrape his wrist. He’s always been a bitey bastard. He’s about to reprimand when Dean is kissing where his teeth just were, doing his level best to be Good, and any ire melts away. He’s really getting a hang of this tender thing, even if it seems to have him in a bit of a panic. Dean’s thighs twitch as he tries to match the speed of his hips to Roman’s hand and quiet noises start sneaking out like teenagers on his breath. 

“Ro- Sir. Fuck, sorry-”

“You’re doing fine. You’re doing fantastic, babe. You’re so good.” Between the grinding and the power trip, Roman is so hard it just about hurts, but it’s not even a little bit important. He guides Dean’s face back to his and Dean is lunging for a kiss like he’s surfacing for air. His hands stutter from Roman’s chest to his face like he thinks he might need a buffer, and Roman smooths his free hand down Dean’s almost painfully bowed back, fingertips drawing up a line of goosebumps. A shiver wracks Dean’s frame, and he isn’t kissing now, as much as he’s just sort of gasping with his lips against Roman’s. 

“Fuck fuck fuckfuck, I need- I gotta-”

“Tell me what you need, gorgeous.”

“Shit! Shhhh, don’t, I wanna- You gotta-”

“I don’t gotta do shit. Tell me what you need, killer.”

“Need to come. Please lemme, please. I gotta.” Roman gives Dean’s cock a squeeze, then slows his hand back down to a steady pace, unflinching when Dean keens and drops his head to Roman’s chest with a thump, still squirming needfully.

“If that’s what you want, you’re gonna have to do something for me, first.”

“Anything you want. I’ll be so good. Anything, shit.”

“You’re already being so good. Such a good boy for me. But I need you to look me in the face and say thank you. I’ve been nothing but nice to you and for all your fussing, I’m not sure if you appreciate it.” It’s a bit of a tall order, but Roman knows Dean can manage. He keeps his head down a moment longer, and he’s flushed to the chest when he does look up, but his keen, shining eyes lock with Roman’s and he’s not backing down.

“Thank you. You’re so fucking good to me. Nnh- Nobody says the shit you say to me. Thank you- fuck!”

Roman spares Dean the agony of constructing more sentences, speeding his hand back up again and paying special attention to the flare of the head of Dean’s cock, loving how it turns Dean’s gasps all wheezy and hiccupy like the air’s about to run away from him. He buries his forehead against Roman’s neck, rutting desperately into his hand. When he comes, his muscles lock up, and only the quietest noise ekes out of his mouth as he streaks the shirt that Roman was too caught up to remember to take off. He strokes Dean through his release, writing the shirt off as a loss. 

There’s only a second of a lack of contact when he pulls his now gross shirt off over his head quickly and throws it before he pulls Dean close to his chest, kissing the top of his head. His arms bar across Dean’s back, holding him tight as he feels a tremendous need to protect Dean from anything and everything. Between the physical and emotional exertion, Dean is little more than a shaky pile of person on Roman’s chest. He butts his head up tight under Roman’s chin and finagles his legs to tangle with his best friend’s and tucks his hands under Roman’s ribs. His inhales shake dangerously and Roman gives him another squeeze.

“You did so well. That was great, babe.”

“...Can we negotiate before you try f-fucking compliment torture?” Dean turns his head to bury his eyes against Roman’s neck, and he instinctively shushes and moves a hand to scratch at Dean’s scalp.

“Pretty sure compliment torture isn’t a thing.”

“Is.” There’s tiny spots of moisture against Roman’s neck, and he’s relieved that Dean isn’t trying to wall that all up, at least.

“Let me know when you want water, alright? We don’t have to do that again, if you don’t want.”

Dean’s quiet for a long while- long enough that the shaking stops and the spots on Roman’s neck dry- before he tries talking again.

“You might’ve been right.”

“Hn?”

“Might’ve… I’ve never had that before.”

“You deserve it. Every bit of it.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Nah. You’re kinda the bees knees, son. I’m not about to drop that.”

“...Fuck.”

“What?”

“I told you not to get all weird on me.”

“The hell? I’m not freaking out!”

“Yeah, this might be worse, though.” 

Roman pinches Dean’s side, then lets out a full laugh at the way Dean writhes from it. Dean sits up, making sure to give Roman a shove as he does so, to reach for a bottle of water. He downs half of it, capping it and offering it to Roman before fitting himself against his partner’s side again.

“...So, now can I touch your fucking weiner?” Roman just about spits the water out.

“No. Don’t worry about my damn weiner. It’s stupid o’ clock and we should probably be asleep right now.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“...Fine, tomorrow.” 

Dean allows Roman to roll him onto his side, and they both kick out of their pants before shimmying under the covers. Roman belts an arm over Dean’s waist, and is surprised for the hundredth time that day when Dean laces their fingers together. He tucks his back to Roman’s chest as tight as he can and that indomitable hot air balloon feeling is back and Roman very nearly says thank you out loud to Dean for not letting him float away entirely.

“Tell me about what you were doing on the computer,” he says instead. He falls asleep to the rumble of Dean’s voice, explaining sleepily. He’s mostly asleep after about a minute, but swears that he feels Dean lift his hand and press a tiny kiss to the back of it as consciousness finally ebbs away like a grain of sand on the tide. It’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks.


End file.
